The Light After the War

by Anita Abriel

Vera squeezed through the door and approached the reception desk.

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.

  “Mr. Matthews said I should come back,” Vera stammered.

  The woman consulted her book. “I’m afraid he’s about to leave. He has to meet some clients for cocktails.”

  Vera turned when the door to the inner office opened. Mr. Matthews emerged, and this time he wore a jacket over his shirt.

  “Miss Frankel,” he said, straightening his tie. “Please come in.”

  “You didn’t have to wait for me,” she responded. “I saw the young woman outside. It seems you made a good choice.”

  “The woman outside?” he repeated.

  “The woman carrying the alligator-skin purse,” Vera went on. “I’m sure she’ll be a good addition to your team.”

  “Miss Jores?” He scratched his head. “She’d never do. She’s getting married in six months and wanted the job to save money for her trousseau. Do you plan on getting married soon?”

  “I don’t think about marriage,” Vera responded.

  He smiled.

  “You will someday.” His voice was kind. “You’re barely twenty years old. Come into my office.”

  Vera followed him inside and perched on a chair. She was thirsty from looking for a job, but she was too anxious to ask for a glass of water.

  “It seems you were too modest,” Mr. Matthews said as he sat at his desk. “I have it on good authority that you’re a star copywriter.”

  “I am?” Vera repeated.

  “Ricardo Albee visited the office this afternoon. He owns one of the biggest car dealerships in Caracas. He said if we hired you, he’d bring his business.” He looked at Vera. “I assumed it was because you are a great copywriter.”

  Vera tried to think. How did Ricardo know she was applying to J. Walter Thompson? What had he told Mr. Matthews?

  “I did some writing in Naples after the war.” Vera thought of the letters she helped Anton write to mothers who had lost their sons.

  “What kind of writing?”

  “For the American army,” she said quickly. “The army wasn’t popular in Naples because the city was destroyed by the Allies.”

  “So you were assigned the task of making the Americans more likable?” He inquired. “That must have been difficult.”

  “It was but I enjoyed it.” Vera nodded. If she wanted the job, it was better to let him believe she composed the letters herself. “It’s satisfying to do a job well.” She recalled the long hours of taking dictation, when her fingers curled from holding the pen.

  “Your employer, this Captain Wight, gave you a glowing review, and Ricardo Albee thinks the same,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose we can try you out.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Vera clapped her hands. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

  “A three-month trial period,” he continued. “How does sixteen bolivares a week sound?”

  Vera gulped and imagined earning sixteen bolivares a week. They could move to a room on the second floor with its own sink. Edith would be thrilled not to have to wash her face in the communal bathroom, and they’d have room to hang up their dresses.

  “You can start tomorrow.” He walked to the door. “There are plenty of cars in Caracas. Maybe you can borrow one and practice driving.”

  * * *

  Vera stopped at the market in the Plaza Bolívar and bought fruit for her and Edith, and a bottle of whiskey for Lola. Now that Vera had a job, they could afford to explore the city. There were art museums, and the Sabana Grande Boulevard was lined with elegant shops. They could even take a taxi to Cerro El Ávila Mountain for the fresh air. The view was supposed to be breathtaking: Caracas nestled in a green valley and the Caribbean Sea far below. And they could sit at a café in the Plaza Venezuela without being asked to leave. It was Vera’s favorite place, but the waiters gave them sour looks if they took up a table without ordering a dish to share or glasses of chicha. Sometimes she gazed at the lights glittering in the fountain at night and was reminded of Naples. She could almost smell the mix of gasoline and cigarettes in the air and imagine Marcus crossing the piazza to join them.

  A green convertible with a yellow racing stripe was parked in front of Lola’s house. Ricardo hopped out as Vera approached.

  “Good evening.” He greeted her and held out a potted plant. “This is for you. It’s an orchid from my mother’s garden.”

  “It’s beautiful, thank you. But what are you doing here?” Vera took the plant.

  “It is common courtesy in Venezuela to call on a pretty woman you meet at a ball.” He bowed formally. “May I come inside?”

  “Into the house?” Vera asked.

  “I wasn’t expecting to be invited into the bedroom. I’m guessing there is a salon.” He smiled. “Or even a kitchen where I could get a glass of water.”

  It was evening and the other boarders were probably at home. It was perfectly safe to invite Ricardo inside.

  “Please, come in.” She walked up the steps. “We don’t need to sit in the kitchen. There’s a comfortable living room.”

  * * *

  They entered the living room and Vera put a bowl of nuts on the coffee table. Ricardo wore a sports jacket and slacks. She hadn’t seen anyone dress like that since before the war. Anton wore casual shirts when he wasn’t in uniform, and the young men in Naples showed off leather jackets bought on the black market.

  “How did you know which ad agency I applied to and where we live?” she inquired.

  “You were applying to an English-speaking ad agency and there are only two in Caracas,” he said easily. “I visited the office and your address was written on the information card.”

  “You copied it down?” Vera repeated. “That’s private information.”

  Ricardo’s actions unsettled her, but she didn’t want to make more of a fuss. She could hardly accuse him of doing something wrong when it was because of him that she got the job.

  “I wanted to see where you live.” He looked around the room. “Kitty said Edith’s mother was friends with Elsa Schiaparelli in Paris. With that sort of pedigree, I confess I thought your accommodations would be grander.”

  Vera wished Edith hadn’t made up stories about her past. She didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t trust Ricardo enough to tell him the truth.

  “Why did you tell Mr. Matthews that I was a star copywriter and you’d bring him your business if he hired me?” she asked instead. “You hardly know me.”

  “I guessed you didn’t know anyone who could give you a recommendation,” he explained. “I hope it was of some help.”

  She nodded. “I got the job. I wouldn’t have had a chance without you.”

  “You are thanking me by allowing me to sit in your company,” Ricardo replied. When he looked at Vera, his brown eyes were large and dark. “What do two Hungarian girls in Caracas do to enjoy themselves?”

  “We haven’t done anything; we’ve been busy trying to get jobs.”

  It seemed too intimate to admit they couldn’t afford to sit at a café and order fruit punch with melon slices soaked in rum.

  “That will change tonight,” he suggested. “We’ll go for a drive and celebrate. There is a salsa club that serves the best Caribe rum.”

  “I can’t just get into your car,” she laughed. “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “I’ll give you a short history,” he offered. “All my life I have had a love affair with cars. When I was eighteen, I convinced my parents to take me to the Grand Prix in Monte Carlo. I was determined to be a race car driver. My mother said she hadn’t spent twenty hours giving birth to a son to see him die in a ball of flames. Instead, I opened a car dealership. Tonight I am driving my favorite: a British MG.”

  Mr. Matthews did say she should drive in a car, and the night was so balmy. It would be lovely to sit under the stars and watch the glittering lights of the city.

  “I’m too tired for a nightclub, but it might b
e nice to sit outside and have a cool drink.”

  “An excellent plan.” He stood up and held out his hand. “You will love Caracas at night.”

  * * *

  They sat at an outdoor café and Ricardo ordered cocadas: coconut pulp with sugar and condensed milk. It reminded Vera of the way her mother made coffee, with two sugar cubes and whole cream instead of water.

  The café was on one of the pedestrian-only boulevards near Plaza Luis Brión that were so pretty. Trees arched over the road and couples strolled by, the men in light jackets and the women wearing summer dresses.

  Sitting with Ricardo felt different than being with Anton. Everything about Anton had been warm and open. Ricardo was the opposite and completely unpredictable. He went a few minutes without talking and Vera couldn’t tell what he was the thinking.

  “I have been invited to dinner on Saturday night at the home of the Vasquezes. They own petroleum stations. You and Edith can come as my guests; it would be a good place for her to find a husband.”

  “Who said Edith was looking for a husband?” Vera sipped her drink.

  “Why else would you both have come to Caracas?”

  “We came to find jobs and make a life,” she answered. “That doesn’t have to revolve around men.”

  “Europe is rebuilding after the war; there must be jobs,” he said, studying Vera. “But there might not be so many men.”

  “No, not so many,” Vera faltered, thinking of Stefan and the boys she had known in school. Had any of them returned to Budapest, or were their bodies lying in open graves at the camps?

  “There is nothing wrong with wanting a husband.” He touched her hand. “It is a man’s privilege to look after his wife.”

  “We’re perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves,” she answered, moving her hand. “I have the job at the ad agency and Edith is going to design dresses.”

  His expression grew curious. “Why do you think I suggested Clark Matthews hire you?”

  “If it’s because you think it gives you permission to take me home and kiss me, you wasted your time.” Her cheeks flushed. “I accepted the invitation for a drink because it seemed like a pleasant way to spend the evening.”

  “That’s not the reason. I am a big believer in women,” he mused. “My father would be a clerk instead of a member of parliament if my mother didn’t write his speeches. At the ball, I could tell you were very intelligent.”

  Ricardo hadn’t done anything wrong, and she was enjoying herself. She wondered why she was irritable. Was it because no matter how hard she tried to forget Anton, she still longed to be sitting with him at a café in Naples?

  “I am grateful.” She nodded. “You did something nice for me even though I’m a stranger.”

  “I may not have fought any battles or gone days without food, but I’ve seen pain,” he continued. “One of my sisters was beaten by her husband, and my younger brother died when I was ten.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vera apologized.

  “Life can be bright.” He waved at the sky. “We are lucky that in the summer the sun doesn’t set until seven p.m. There are many hours in the day to be happy.”

  “You’re right.” She lifted her glass. “I’ll take another one of these.”

  * * *

  After they finished their rum drinks, Ricardo drove Vera home. The MG pulled up in front of Lola’s house and Ricardo turned off the engine.

  “Perhaps we can do this again and next time you can drive?” Ricardo suggested.

  “You’ll let me drive your car?” Vera wondered.

  “Driving a car is the second most enjoyable thing in life.” Ricardo jumped up and opened Vera’s door.

  The sky was a sheath of stars above the open roof of the convertible. The rum warmed her and she nodded.

  “All right, I’d like that.”

  “You didn’t ask me what the most enjoyable thing is.” Ricardo helped her out of the car.

  “What is it?”

  “Spending the evening with a beautiful woman,” he said, walking her to the door.

  * * *

  “Where have you been? Who were you with?” Edith asked when Vera reached their room.

  Edith stood at the window. She wore a robe that Signora Rosa had given her in Naples and her hair was in curlers.

  “How do you know I was with someone?” Vera asked.

  “I saw him drive away.” Edith pointed at the window.

  “It was nothing. I got the job, and Ricardo asked me for a drink to celebrate.”

  “The man you danced with at the ball?” Edith inquired. “I was right! I told you he was some wealthy Venezuelan who would buy you chocolates and take you driving in his convertible.”

  “He didn’t buy me chocolates, only a plant,” Vera laughed, pointing to the orchid. She noticed a bag of buttons beside it. “What are these?”

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” Edith asked. “I’m going to sew them on my dress for Kitty’s luncheon.”

  “If you spend all the money you got from the pearls, there won’t be anything left,” Vera reminded her.

  “You have to trust in the future,” Edith said.

  Vera was tired as she crawled into her side of the bed while Edith continued her sewing.

  Ricardo had asked why they came to Caracas. She could have said that they came to forget the past. But the truth was that they were afraid of facing a future without the people they loved.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  March 1947

  Vera sat in Lola’s kitchen and ate scrambled eggs with tomatoes and onions and peppers. Everything Lola cooked was spicy compared to the creamy sauces in Naples and the potato gnocchi her mother made in Budapest. Lola laughed and said Venezuelans loved spice in their food and in their love affairs.

  It had been three weeks since Vera started working at J. Walter Thompson. All day she sat at her desk and thought up catchy phrases to go in newspaper ads and magazines. She took a prepared lunch of bread and beans to save money, and bought a briefcase to carry her notepads and pens.

  Ricardo picked her up most evenings and they drove around the city. Sometimes she wondered why she accepted his invitations. But Edith was busy with Kitty’s parties and Lola used her living room to entertain suitors. Ricardo was pleasant company. He introduced her to Latin music and showed her parts of Caracas she never would have discovered alone.

  She loved the older neighborhoods of Caracas. Colonial houses stood behind iron gates, and the boulevards were shaded by wide oak trees. She adored strolling around Las Mercedes district with its art galleries and international restaurants. Her favorite was a Sicilian restaurant that served risotto and a selection of Italian wines. She scribbled down the names to include in a letter to Signora Rosa.

  Ricardo proved to be the perfect tour guide. They spent an afternoon at a coffee plantation owned by an Italian count. Vera remembered drinking Ottie’s tepid coffee on the farm and picked some coffee beans to show Edith. One night they drove to a club that played joropo music in the town of Petare. Vera fell instantly in love with the haunting melodies coming from the bandola llanera. The rum warmed her throat and Ricardo’s dark eyes twinkled in the candlelight, and she felt like she belonged.

  But at other times she missed exploring Naples with Edith and Marcus and Paolo. They had been so glad that the war was over and there was food and drink, they were like puppies tumbling through the streets. Ricardo was more at home at elegant cocktail parties and museum openings. She spent part of those evenings in the powder room making sure her lipstick was perfectly applied and there wasn’t a tear in her stockings.

  Often she still longed for Anton: the way he had looked at her when she appeared at the top of the staircase in the green evening gown, the serious expression when he wanted her opinion on a letter. She thought she would feel better alone. But then she would gaze out the window of Ricardo’s convertible at the blue swath of ocean or stand under the waterfall at the foot of Angel Falls and the pain of missing An
ton receded. Venezuela was full of new sights and sounds, and she was determined to enjoy them.

  Vera heard footsteps, and Edith rushed into the kitchen. She wore one of her new dresses. This one had a cinched waist and a slit up the skirt. “Look! It’s a letter from New York!”

  Vera put down her fork. Could it be from Anton’s father? Vera had never written to his secretary again, but perhaps she got Vera’s address from Signora Rosa. Or the letter was from Anton himself.

  “It’s from Marcus,” Edith said.

  “Marcus? What’s he doing in America?”

  “I’ll read it to you.” Edith tore it open. “Marcus should be a writer as well as a photographer. He’s a very good storyteller.”

  “ ‘Bella Edith,

  “ ‘You will never believe where I am writing! The postage stamp will give it away so I will tell you: New York City. How did a boy from a village in southern Italy come to 4 Sutton Place, New York (that’s my address: write it down!)?

  “ ‘After you left, I moved to Rome. I took photographs everywhere: the Trevi Fountain at night, the Colosseum with the pink sunset creeping through the ruins, and the Vatican. I had never been truly alive until I saw Michelangelo’s frescoes in the Sistine Chapel.

  “ ‘Without you posing for the photographs, they were as bland as the soups my mother made during the war. I was so dejected, I considered throwing myself into the Tiber.’ ” Edith looked up. “Marcus would never have killed himself; he loves to exaggerate.”

  “Go on,” Vera urged.

  “ ‘Then I met Anthony,’ ” Edith returned to the letter. “ ‘He was so beautiful, even Vera would have fallen in love with him. He let me take photos of him, and in exchange he stayed in my room at the pensione. At night we’d lie side by side and stroke hands, and it was the life I had always dreamed of.

  “ ‘One afternoon I came home and found Anthony in bed with another man. Anthony and I got into a raging fight and I kicked him out. But listen to this: an American who owns a gallery in New York saw the photos I took of Anthony. He invited me to visit. I am sitting in his apartment in Sutton Place and tonight I go to a showing of my work.’ ”